


Going Home

by Face_of_Poe



Series: The Conway Cabal [10]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Off-screen Character Death, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 21:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: And in their grief he unites them one last time.





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Me, 6 months ago: "Hey, what else in this universe does anyone want to read?"  
> Readers: [suggest fun ideas]  
> Me, now: "Melancholy angst? Sounds *great* let's do this." 
> 
> (I'm so sorry, I have no idea what happened.)
> 
> Set 10-ish years after What Comes Next.

It probably oughtn’t surprise him that _this_ is what it takes to get him back to the Senate chamber.

Or, well – almost to the Senate chamber. _Above_ the Senate chamber, really, and he somehow never made it to the gallery during his tenure as a page. But here he sits now, bathed in emergency lighting, far enough away to escape the inevitable din of the crowd in and around and waiting to enter the Rotunda, no matter the solemnity of the moment.

The Senate floor below is dim and eerie. Smaller somehow than it had seemed even then, and he remembers being surprised at how little space one hundred bodies indeed take up.

John texts to check up on him. Alexander assures him that he’s still on-site, but offers no clues to as his particular hideaway. Doesn’t want to alarm anybody. But doesn’t want to intrude on this moment that feels somehow different for John and Marty, who he left with Martha and Jack back in the Rotunda. Their collective grief weighed further down by the specter of Patsy’s tragically young death.

Of course, the weak spot in his plan was always the fact that the gallery was not simply _open_ – nor was this whole wing at all. Gaining access necessitated loose ends, loose ends he belated realizes were _not_ to be trusted, when the door at the top of the gallery opens.

He doesn’t move, from where he has his arms crossed over the railing and chin propped on his arms. Staring blankly down at the chamber below. Makes his interloper work for it. He’s trying to decide if it’s more likely to be John hunting him down or Capitol Police kicking him out, when slow, deliberate footsteps precede the firm press of a hand on his shoulder.

He shifts and looks up; and then coughs and straightens, and tries to discreetly wipe at his face while Jefferson sidles past and settles himself a couple of seats down. Never mind that it’s assuredly too dark to make out his red eyes and splotchy face. “Mister President.”

“You alright, kid?”

_Kid_. He huffs out of a soft laugh. “You ever going to stop calling me that?”

In all fairness to Jefferson, they have avoided doing… _this_ … with impressive efficiency over the past odd decade.

There wasn’t a lot left to be said, after the business with Adams and Legget.

Jefferson doesn’t answer – Alexander can only imagine the number of ill-received tones he might attempt to strike in the response, and doesn’t blame him – and they’re left there in the same suffocating silence in which Alexander has been brooding for the past half hour.

At least until he sighs and murmurs, “He’d hate this.”

Jefferson murmurs a vague agreement. “George never could fully wrap his head around the pedestal onto which this country placed him. But he knew the importance of tolerating the ceremony of it.”

“The people do enjoy a production.” The side of Jefferson’s mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “I understand congratulations are in order for the First Family.” Jefferson inclines his head slowly. “Marty was pretty tight-lipped when I bowed out of the interrogation.”

He appears to debate inwardly for a minute before quietly divulging, “Boy. She insists on naming him Thomas and will not be dissuaded.”

An honest bark of laughter escapes Alexander’s chest, and all he can do is shrug and lament, “Ceremony.”

“Hm. Annie is furious, and all attempts thus far to explain that the baby cannot be exchanged for a sister and that there is simply no way whatsoever to give her a _twin_ sister have yielded less than satisfactory results.”

Which is funny, because toddler logic and all, but it just makes him think about how utterly despondent Laf and Addy and the twins have been, and launches him back into his past several days’ melancholy with a sigh.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mister President?”

Jefferson waves him off and then sits forward and mirrors his posture against the rail. “I wondered if you were lurking about these parts, but much like you I am simply hiding. Though I suspect my escape is born far more of cowardice than yours.”

Alexander doesn’t ask. The invitation to elaborate dangles awkwardly in the air between them but… he’s about as little interest in explanations as apologies from this man. And he can guess well enough the root of his present consternation. He knows that theirs was a complicated relationship, Washington and Jefferson. Colleagues, rivals, allies when it mattered, but ultimately undercut by a certain political cynicism, suspicion.

He and Washington by and large avoided the subject of Jefferson in the later years of their friendship. But he also knows that the strained ties between president and former president had not gone unremarked upon in this town, in the media. Some blamed it on Jefferson’s supposed _betrayal_ of the administration, in challenging Adams after resigning his post at State.

Alexander never imagined Washington to be the type to hold a grudge for politicians playing politics. Always wondered if Washington didn’t _prefer_ a challenger to Adams’s _heir ascendant_ attitude that set in during Washington’s second term. He suspects there’s a little more to it and had always been afraid to ask.

Or, well – to ask Washington, that is. He’d caved some years ago and asked Lafayette, who balanced his relationships with the two men as best he could, and gotten a perturbed frown and shake of the head.

It always felt weird and self-serving to wonder if _he_ wasn’t at the center of that rift. But he thinks it very well may be the case. And he’s lost the opportunity to ask.

He’d say fate were giving him a sign, the quietly contemplative president at his side, but asking Jefferson would imply _trusting_ the answer he may or may not receive, and this whole thing right here is weird enough as is.

The silence between them ends up being broken by a voice at the door. A soft and familiar, “Thomas?” that has Alexander whirling in surprise.

“Jesus _Christ_. Stealthy as ever, Mister Secretary.”

Madison blinks between them in uncharacteristic uncertainty. “The motorcade arrives in ten.”

Jefferson nods. He rises and edges back past Alexander, touching another brief hand to his shoulder upon his retreat. “They’ll want to lock up before the public begins the circuit,” he mentions, pausing to glance around the darkened gallery, the shadowed chamber below.

“Yeah, okay.” Alexander watches the two men ascend back to the door.

Madison pushes it open, but then hesitates and looks back. He nods Jefferson on ahead of him, and waits for the door to close again behind him before murmuring quietly, “I don’t imagine you need me to tell you this; but your friendship meant a great deal to him, Alexander.”

And no, he doesn’t need James Madison to tell him that. But he doesn’t mind hearing it, either. “Yes, sir.”

They exchange nods; Madison slips out the door after the president, and Alexander is left to his own thoughts once more.

Except when he turns and looks out over the empty Senate floor one last time, dissatisfaction courses through him and he finds himself climbing to his feet and hurrying off after the two men. Figures… if there’s any day that ought not be governed by the jagged rift between Jefferson and himself, between Jefferson and Washington, it may as well be today.

“Hold up,” he calls as he pushes through the gallery door. “I’ll walk down with you.” Let the press do its thing; he doesn’t owe them explanations. “I should probably make sure someone saved me a seat, in any case.”

Madison shoots him a dry look over his shoulder as they descend towards the main level. “It rather looked as though your husband had you covered.”

“Knew I kept him around for something.”

He’s not oblivious to the photos being snapped of their trio entering the Rotunda – Jefferson in the middle, Alexander and Madison to either side. Madison flits away as unobtrusively as ever though, off to fill in among a handful of other Cabinet secretaries congregating for the arrival of the casket and the service to follow.

Alexander leads the way over to where Martha and Jack are preparing to head outside to greet the car. He lets Martha pull him into a tight embrace that’s stronger than a woman of her age and stature has any right to impart, shakes Jack’s hand, and then stands aside as Jefferson leans in and offers a few whispered words of condolence for their ears only.

And then Jefferson steps back and offers his arm. Martha takes it with a regal nod, holds out her other arm for Jack, and the two men slowly escort her from the room to go and await the approaching motorcade.

Alexander watches them go, a hot mess of mixed feelings, and then works his way around to the chairs set up behind a rope barrier on the other side of the Rotunda. There’s two empty seats he suspects will belong to Laf and Addy, and wonders if they’re already outside, and then Annie and Ginny sitting with John and Marty, a coat thrown over the chair between Ginny and John.

Marty leans over to remove the coat as he approaches, and then reaches back to squeeze his hand as John leans in to kiss his cheek. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. And might even mean it. “Your dad and I went for the same brooding spot. Small Hill.”

He looks around, then. Catches sight of familiar faces interspersed in a sea of strangers. Senators and congressmen who have been around since the page days; journalists who’ve covered D.C. since his own brief days in the business. The next generation rising in the midst of the old, both figuratively – he spots Virginia’s senators, neither of whom have yet finished their first full term – and literally, the children of the political world growing up embroiled in the intrigue governing their parents’ professional lives.

From a spot a quarter away around the circle of onlookers, he catches Madison’s eye; and he thinks about the first day he set foot in this building. A nervous sixteen-year-old with something to prove. A nobody struggling with a sense of inadequacy when stacked up next to John, Eliza, Aaron.

He looks at John now, and is struck with the absolute conviction that today will be the _last_ time he sets foot in this building. Their lives have long headed in a different direction – and Washington’s death closes the final chapters on this part once and for all.

The careful, choreographed footsteps of the honor guard begin to reverberate down the long marble corridor.

It’s time to say goodbye.


End file.
